Lucas shifted Sebastian higher against his chest with one hand and thumbed absently at the soft curve of his tiny shoulder. The baby made a sleepy, squeaky noise and then went boneless again. The house was warm and quiet, the kind of sunset lull that belonged to families, not rules of the empires.
But Trevor still wasn't home.
Lucas frowned at the clock once. Just once. He didn't worry. He just… noticed.
"Windstone," he called, not raising his voice above normal conversation level.
Windstone appeared from the hallway like he materialized there, hands behind his back, expression of cultured innocence. He always managed to look like he hadn't been eavesdropping, despite definitely having been.
"Yes?" he said, his tone pleasantly neutral.
Lucas narrowed his eyes a fraction. "Where's Trevor?"
Windstone inhaled like a man preparing a performance.
"Well, as it happens… Chef Emil has perfected the fried chicken breading. Truly outstanding work. The texture…"
"Windstone."
